


Let The Traitor Heal

by 1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: After Everything Went to [Bleep] In Season One, But Before Everything REALLY Went to [Bleep] In Season 3, Coulson Talking to Ward, Multi, My Tags My Rules, Spoilers, Ward in the Cage, Yes I Did Just Say That, much feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:25:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary/pseuds/1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary
Summary: A fluffier version of when Ward is in prison, and everyone is very mad at him. Still, this should turn out better than my previous work. Healing is involved, tears, fluff, the whole shebang.





	1. Stay on Your Side of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to be nice to Ward. And everyone else. Here goes.

'Get your bearings, open your eyes. Two goals. Achieve both of them. Ready, go.' Grant Douglas Ward, traitor to S.H.I.E.L.D., double-agent for HYDRA, opened his eyes first and got his bearings only partially. 'Don't do the steps out of order. Establish a routine.' He did it over this time, got his bearings by rehearsing some lines over in his mind, then focusing on the firmness of the "bed" underneath him, the coolness of the cement wall when he reached up to touch it. These things were real. He gripped these mentally and breathed slowly until his pulse slowed. Then he opened his eyes again. This time, the light's harshness was bearable, and he could look at the tiny red dot that showed the cameras were recording. Next he had to roll out of bed -- follow the routine. After that, he had to exercise, counting the seconds meticulously so that each minute was accounted for and he didn't exceed his time limit, another thing he'd decided to do. After his exercises he folded his blanket and put it on top of the pillow, put his shirt back on, and sat on the floor, eyes shut, feeling the cold floor, the buzzing of electricity, the imagined shriek that came from the red dot on the security cameras, the imagined scraping noise that went back and forth whenever he pictured the yellow line dividing his prison cell's limit from the rest of the basement.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. There had to be better methods but this was the only one he could think of. He never used to feel so shaky, and he never used to get panic attacks. His life before he came to be inside this cell had been an interrupted internal scream, one that Garrett had only turned up louder and externalized. But to be fair, Garrett also taught him this one exercise, maybe just in case something like this ever happened. Garrett had been well-acquainted with loss of hope, and he got good at calling it out in others, Ward especially. Still, there were small moments when he could be kind. That was better than nothing. Give everyone their deserved credit; Ward believed that. Not everyone was completely heinous. Not everyone was entirely heroic. What people decided to do in moments of extreme pressure and crisis determined what they were better at being, bad or good, what they were attuned to. Ward didn't know he could do anything else with his life until it was too late. That was another time when he'd done the steps out of order and came out of it destroyed and abandoned, his mentor dead, his new team hating his guts, but they weren't his team anymore because they weren't in this cell with him. His old team stood on the other side of the yellow line that he pictured in his mind, and he understood why it was like this. 'Don't do the steps out of order. They keep you on your side of the line.' He nodded as he repeated this new saying inside his head.

Sitting at a bank of computer screens, May watched Ward as he nodded from where he sat on the floor. On impulse May zoomed in to see his face better and saw that Ward blinked his eyes in time to each of his nods. His lips moved like he was repeating a line, or studying something. She clicked out of the window and the feeds returned to normal. A new routine, then. Ward was trying to keep busy and not go insane. 'Again', she amended, and got up from the chair that she left to swivel in circles while she walked out of the room. On the screen, Ward still nodded. In Ward's head: 'Don't do the steps out of order. They keep you on your side of the line.'

Quickly the repetitions devolved into one word: 'Don't'.


	2. Coulson's Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson comes down to talk with Ward like he does in the actual show, but in this fic he does it at May's recommendation after she sees signs that Ward might be close to another mental breakdown.

May came into Coulson's office quietly enough to make his eyebrows go up. Coulson had been through the loss of his life, his limb, and he'd lost so much of his ability to trust in his team that it would have to be written in scientific notation if someone wanted to express it. But in a word, he was pissed. Smoldering, simmering, lots of other verbs to do with heat, because heat is in a lot of ways indicative of friction, but Coulson kept it down because he had a job to do and a team to take care of and support. He'd deal with his emotional issues the same way he always did: leave them in a dark corner, let them expire, have some mental janitor throw them out. Not healthy, not even remotely, but he had been brought back from the dead, so he got a freebie or two when it came to self-care. He'd eaten breakfast, had some water and medication, some coffee, and gotten dressed. He was okay until he realized May was standing in front of his desk. Then he felt the need to vent. It almost happened.

"Ward's acting strange."

"Good morning," Coulson said.

"His behavior's getting more obsessive. He's getting too attached to patterns."

"Have you thought that he might be trying to make a routine for himself, pass the time?" May was suspicious, as close as she had ever gotten to worry, and as close as she would ever again come to it in Ward's case. Coulson motioned for her to take a seat which she didn't do. 

"I thought maybe that was it, so I was going to leave it alone," May said, and held out a tablet she'd gotten from Simmons. It showed the security feeds for Ward's cell. "Hit the playback button for an hour ago."

Coulson took the tablet from her outstretched hand and tapped the screen. The system switched to full-screen, so Coulson could see the nods, the blinks, the mutters. "Is he faking it? He's proved to us how good he is at that."

"I don't think so. Go to the current feed."

Coulson tapped 'Current' on the screen and it switched to Ward in his cell; he was still nodding, blinking, and muttering. Even without zooming in on Ward's face like May had, he could tell that there was something wrong with Ward's eyes. He put the tablet down on his desk, Ward still moving like he was being played on a loop. GIF Ward. "What do you think we should do?"

"Go talk to him."

"Any reason it's me, specifically?" 

"Authority figure. One who won't murder him before hearing his story. One who's been trying to talk to him. List goes on," she said. "You have some sort of connection with him. Don't let him snap."

Coulson shrugged. "You care about him, still?"

May's face warped with disgust. "No. I care about my team. If we let him rot we'll be like him. I'm not going to let him do that to us, too."

"Good answer," Coulson said.

"I know."

So Coulson went down to the basement to have a chat with Ward, who was still nodding. Ward's mind filled with pictures of when he tried to carve his arm open, over and over, a red line, lots of red lines, then some yellow lines, then THE yellow line -- he had to stay on his side. He felt his pulse speed up and searched for something to calm him. The first option: classic peaceful beach with turquoise waters, brightly-colored fish swimming around bushes of seaweed and coral reefs? It worked for a short while. Then he remembered one time when Garrett ordered him to kill someone in a place resembling that. "Do it, son." That was all Garrett needed to say. Boom, Ward did it. Bark, bark. Yes, master. Okay, what else? Looking up at tree branches at twilight, just before the harvest moon rose. Isolated woods, graceful trees, delicate pattern in stark contrast against the day's dying light, silhouettes far above of birds migrating south for the winter. He could hear the soft whistle of wind and rustle of dead brown leaves, a few animal calls. Then he heard the wrong animal. A dog's panting. He saw a dog's happy loyal trusting face; he felt cold pads on each of his shoulders, and a hot tongue lapping at his chin. No, that was bad. Get away from that... There had to be something. One good, pure memory.

A rocket blasting off into the sky. Sunset again. An airfield, a private spot. He sat there with a cooler of drinks with Skye, Leo, Jemma, and Melinda. That was the day when they started to bond, and yeah, Garrett had warned him about that. Ward still let it happen. It just felt nice, like he didn't have to work for it. The smoke trailing down where the rocket had already flown; the flame at the bottom that propelled the rocket upward into space; the point of the rocket at the top that Ward now imagined cutting through each layer of sky until it got to black, black stars, and silence, and peace. He imagined all his panic going up with it. 

That fixed things for a short time. Now his mind had hit reset, and his nerves were counting down until the next time they could try to trick Ward into breaking. 

The screen of his prison cell switched from opaque to transparent. Coulson stood there by the monitor. "Got a new trick, Ward?"

Ward stood up, or tried to; his legs were numb. How long had he sat there? He'd forgotten to count the seconds and add them all up to minutes. 'Missed a step,' he thought. 'Don't let it happen again.'

Since his larynx was still not fully recovered from May's anger, he signed his answer: 'It's how I pass the time.'

"The feeds made it look more like you were trying to stave off an attack. That's what you were doing, isn't it?"

He'd promised not to lie. 'I took care of it.'

"We can have someone come do an evaluation."

'I won't let it happen again,' Ward signed.

"My experience is that you can't do much to control these kinds of things," Coulson said. He smiled without any warmth. "You're a traitor and you're in a cell because of it. But these attacks? You're not the only one." Coulson turned the prison cell's screen back to opaque; Ward heard footsteps on the stairs going up until finally they faded away, and Ward was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, I should mention just in case any of you are a little nervous about commenting that you can if you want. Yes, the comments are moderated, but that's just because I don't want the sort of comment string that happens on YouTube to happen here. This is a place of nerdiness and we should all nerd together. The truce of the nerds! (Or just the severely perverted; I know what else fanfic is famous for)
> 
> (Aren't we all just weird can I get an amen)


	3. Tiny Useless Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all need to have some sort of security just to make it through each day. We can't bear to look stupid, and we often don't want to try anything new, because again, we could mess it up and look stupid. This chapter covers more of Ward's mental security measures and maybe a little growth for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all staying strong, take care of yourself, please... *hug hug hug* You mean a lot more than you think you do. And you have such power, every one of you. I mean you don't even know, it's honestly scary how amazing every one of you really is

Secrets are stigmatized because they signify a presence of knowledge in one person's mind and the absence of that knowledge in another person's mind. So often, secrets are used to inflict pain or to exert control, and the ones who suffer in whatever way remember how they've suffered and they forever mistrust secrets, instead of the person who misused them. Blackmail, lies: these find a safe place in secrecy, sure, but there are also crushes, and surprises, and journal entries -- things treasured but sometimes never voiced. Ward didn't have anything like that, but he did have his routines, his regulations, and he had preferences as to how he followed them. He had a spot in his cell where he liked to work out, a position he liked to sleep in, a certain way he liked to pull his shirt on after finishing exercises. What gave distinction to these banalities were the memories he attached to each action, his stash of what he had experienced that he considered to be "good and pure". The spot in his cell where he liked to exercise had this memory: sitting alone in the woods after Garrett had left him alone, and the sounds of birds and other animals to which his mind gradually attuned, his own spot by a little brook, under the branches of enormous and elderly trees in all seasons. Alone, dependent on no one, responsible for nobody's pain save his own. That had felt pretty close to bliss, once Ward figured out how not to die, and what plants did or didn't make him sick. Letting his mind release its inner tension through the medium of work and survival had given him a place to be, a good place, even when he was stuck in places like this cell. 

The place he went to when he fell asleep was again in a location where he'd stayed by himself, tracking and observing. It was a flat on a quiet street someplace in France, and the only people who went down the streets were old couples or nannies with the children they were in charge of, maybe a bicyclist or two, their baskets filled with groceries or books or sometimes their pets. Shop windows had tasteful displays, nostalgic in a way, and balconies of neighboring flats were either crowded with plants and solitary tenants or people who talked and laughed over food, wine, and softly-playing music. He walked by himself down many streets like these, and noisier ones, filthier ones, the kind of place he had thought Garrett would put him, but instead his mentor had given him the key to a quiet place. Garrett had never done anything unintentionally, so Ward knew he'd made sure that Ward would stay there. A gift? No way to know. But it was good to look back on -- "good and pure". He'd gotten a few jobs there, too, so he could flesh out his cover but also so he could absorb more of the quietness. In a bookshop, in a cafe, in many restaurants where he washed dishes and took out the garbage. He accumulated possessions and arranged them in his flat, a vase of flowers with flowers bought from one of those street vendors (he tried out a little French and got a nod of approval from the vendor, but that could have been an attempt to get more money, a successful strategy, as it had turned out), books he'd learned more French from, comics he'd gotten from one of the many comics stores. He bought a bed, a comfortable chair, blankets, dishes, silverware. He bought wine and fresh bread, fresh produce, more flowers, and he entertained some of his neighbors. He even went so far as to invite his landlady to dine with him, but she didn't like foreigners, and she didn't like American ones, especially. He thought of telling her how many people he knew like her in his homeland, that she was nothing special to him, either, but that would have wasted his time. That time was good, and slow-moving. He imagined that he was there when he fell asleep. It relaxed him more than he felt it should, but he didn't complain. No one to complain to, except himself, and the yellow line. 

He thought of Scrabble when he pulled on his shirt. This memory wasn't all the way pure, but it wasn't toxic. Bittersweet; that was the right word. He thought it over, spelled it out with his hand behind his leg so the security cameras couldn't see. He didn't want Coulson to come back down here, because that would mean that he'd been seen again, that he'd once more entered the thoughts of those who were still trying to forget him. Could they? Not all the way. Ward did his best to be realistic about this. It struck him that the most optimistic thought he'd had recently was that maybe other people would be happy if they didn't think of him at all. 'How messed up is that?' he signed, again hiding his hand. He chewed some dead skin off of his lower lip and swallowed it. 

But it was true, right? Everyone upstairs had many, MANY reasons to hate him. Well, not many reasons, but the reasons they had were big, they didn't just go away. Ward would never be able to say "I'm sorry" and fix what he'd done. 'So why be sorry?' he signed again, and chewed the end of his thumbnail. His pulse spiked. These thoughts weren't doing him any good. Back to Scrabble... How the heck did someone know what the little plastic casing on a shoelace was called? But sitting around. Close, on comfortable couches, flying in a home in the sky. That was good to think of, even if he would never get that back. How could he have known what that kind of memory was worth? 'I mean, I'm keeping it a secret, for what, so I don't try to smash my head on the walls again?' 

He thought himself back to the woods, where he was alone. He stood at the edge of a lake, early morning, water probably cold enough to divide body from soul. Across the lake on the opposite shore there stood a fox, not blinking at him, not even focused on him; instead it was hunched over in the rushes around the lake, where a mother duck, father duck, and some ducklings were swimming in the water. Ward listened harder and heard the soft quacks of the mother to her young. He watched the little fuzzy babies twitch and change direction to get closer to their mother's side. The fox was too still to be noticed. The ducks made slight rippled on the lake's surface. Ward watched the fox's body move as it readied itself, as the mother duck got close to the shore. 

He grabbed his rifle and shot the fox. The ducks quacked in alarm. Ward waited for the ducks to leave; then he shouldered his rifle, and made his way around the lake to collect his kill. That hadn't made any difference, he suspected; ducks were prey, and other predators would find them. He'd tried. That had to count, right? He decided yes, it did. He had no one to complain to, no one to talk to, and this was fine. This was as it had to be. This was how he'd made things. And he was adjusting to how he'd made things. So that was good too.

He let a smile bend his lips. 'Good job, I guess'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it thanks for all the anon kudos, pretty sweet to see the numbers going up, comment if you want, don't if you don't, and I hope you keep reading


	4. Fears Come True Before Dreams Ever Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From afar, Coulson intrudes on Ward's shakily peaceful realm.

To Ward's satisfaction, he saw that callouses had formed in the places where he put weight on his body. New ones, not old ones. This was like his own little history, a small accomplishment that grounded him in THIS place, not a very good place, but somewhere more tangible now. Places become more real once they leave traces on those who visit them. Ward thought that sentence again and decided he approved of it. He signed it to himself, a slowly forming habit of his. He always tried to hide his hands, but sometimes he got excited and wasn't careful. 

What happened next wasn't because he signed anything. It was inexplicable.

No one really knows what the appendix is doing in the human body; in Ward's case, it was bursting. He bent forward and his eyes widened in confusion and a brief register of pain, but not any sort brought on by torture. Something inside him was wrong, and he couldn't fix it. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he stumbled to his bed and stared up at the light shining down on his cell. He slowed his breathing, tried not to move too much. 'Calm down.' But he'd followed his routine, how had this happened? The routine was supposed to protect him from himself and others, but now, now, it wasn't doing anything, ow, ow, ow... He shut his eyes, swallowed the saliva that had built up and threatened to spill out and down the sides of his mouth. He whimpered. 

He felt scared. 

From the feeds, Coulson saw Ward fall onto the bed and he saw Ward try to get himself under control, he saw where Ward's hand was, and he called in Simmons for a second opinion because he wasn't an idiot and he knew better than to make judgments off of his own observations. "What does that look like to you?" he asked Simmons. She leaned over and studied Ward, her face tight. "Those appear to be the signs of a burst appendix, sir," she said. 

"Think you could take it out?" 

"I don't have a say."

"We can't let him die."

"You can't, but I bet if I had a go at it--"

"Jemma, don't make me order you. I'm trying to do the right thing and it's not sitting well with me but it has to happen. And you're the best."

Jemma nodded her agreement but still looked far from pleased. 

"You'll do it?"

She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. 

"Thank you." 

She didn't reply, only left the room to go gather the equipment she'd need to perform the surgery.

******

Ward felt it getting worse, but he did his best not to panic, and that didn't go well. He chewed inside his mouth and felt sweat trickle down his head onto the pillow, and he felt a fresh wave of fear. The taste of blood touched his tongue. He kept chewing at his mouth so he didn't scream; he couldn't scream, couldn't break, if he broke, something worse would happen. He knew what it was. He knew it might be time for it to happen anyway. But he wasn't ready. He never was. His body started to shake and he felt his shirt grow damp by his armpits, in the center of his back, on his chest. Calm down... calm down... His hand twitched out 'think of this pain as the fox', and the distraction lessened his fright, but only marginally. 

It came back when he saw someone else was in his cell with him. Someone had some type of sedative... he had to breathe it in because he couldn't get away when he hurt this much... his eyes shut. His hand stopped twitching. Like he'd trained himself to do, images and memorized sensations of his flat in France came to mind as he slipped into sleep. Once he was under, Jemma went to work, enjoying none of it. She thought how easily she could make his death look like an accident. She knew which artery was closest. She wanted to do it. Darkness and the hope of revenge bubbled inside her, and she picked up a surgical knife, aimed it down, got close and then closer to doing it. Her hand shook, and it kept shaking. She put the blade down on the tray, straightened it, and grabbed the tools meant for stitching up a patient. Her hair was messy, her breath felt hot on her face behind the mask she'd put on, but she would do her job, do it well, not for the sake of nobility, but rather because she couldn't be absolutely sure of killing him and not getting caught. 

Once she had her chance she wouldn't regret doing it. It would become one of her favorite memories.

********

Ward felt disoriented and wasn't surprised, but his clothes felt wrong and he felt bandages against his skin. He wasn't on the normal mat on top of the cement block which acted as his bed, but instead he was in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, an I.V. in his arm, his wrists strapped down in just-in-case measures. Coulson probably knew how easy it would be for him to get free of these restraints, but maybe/probably Coulson guessed that Ward didn't want to. Other reasons for not moving or trying to escape included but were not limited to: 1) He was too weak, 2) He was pumped full of drugs, 3) He figured he was missing an appendix now, so, why not get used to that feeling? His hands were stiff and his back had the kind of ache in its spine that meant if Ward moved it just right there would be a lot of great popping noises. He flexed his hands and swallowed, blinked up at the light, realized he knew that light, and that he was still in his cell. 

Chair legs scraped the floor; Ward moved his eyes so he could see the foot of his bed. There sat Coulson. "Your appendix burst," Coulson said. "I had Simmons take it out. She'll oversee your recovery." But he didn't just say this, with his mouth, the good old-fashioned way. He signed it.

Ward signed his thanks and let the gesture stand on its own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hope you liked it, thanks for reading, again, stay strong and know that you're worth more than people tell you or that you tell yourself. Hug people. Ask them if they're okay or if they need anything even if they're the ones smiling and happy. You never know what people are going through.
> 
> I hope you're all doing okay, here's some hugs just in case *hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug*


	5. Still Not Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward ignores Coulson. Ward ignores his feelings. It's all very sad and manly emotional suppression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make sure Ward's okay. If anyone is up to date concerning the latest episodes in this TV series, let me just say this, please: I want a nice day for everyone. Nothing blows up. Everyone's fine. They're all safe. It was alllllll a dreeeeam

The thing about recuperation, or convalescence, or whatever term best fits the definition of "healing from a booboo" in the most hip and medical-sounding way possible...is that it's not fun. What makes this whole process less fun is if one has to do it while in a bad situation, such as a crappy, demanding job, or a bad home life. Being jobless because of the injury is also a non-good thing. Being Grant Douglas Ward beat all these options to crap. Oh, lost a job? That's truly sad. Try being raised to hate yourself and not being aware of any choice other than to do what psychopaths tell you; try realizing that not only did you screw up everything, you did it better than all the best; and THEN try making attempt after attempt to reconstruct yourself mentally. Try realizing, between breathing exercises and the mining of the "good and pure", that during the whole process of deception, you really didn't care that you were going to hurt anybody, even though you cared about them, because something in the back of your mind made you go "well this is what's familiar so why regret watching it burn". That made you a bad person--by choice. Whether or not you had a bad past to contribute to all that good character development didn't matter; you got out of that situation somehow, didn't you, Ward? By fire and blood, Ward, right? In your own way you were surviving and thriving and guess what, you burned everything. You messed it all up. Good job. Highest grade. Top marks. 

And all of it was your choice, Ward, right? Fire and blood. Watch it burn. Nothing has changed, it's all so familiar, it all happened so fast... You watched it happen. You helped it happen. You hated yourself for liking it when it happened. You shut your ears and eyes to the screams and looks of betrayal. And they trusted you. Tell the truth, Ward, since it's just you: do you realize how you divided your brain between "loyal trusting golden retriever" people and "people like me"? If they're like you, they need to die. If they're loyal and trusting, they probably need to die, too, because that makes more sense, depending on the situation. Sometimes they don't. But when it's you, guess what happens next. And shouldn't you feel bad, Ward? Shouldn't you keep trying to smash your brains out on the wall and shouldn't you render yourself braindead or just the good old classic sort of dead? Shouldn't you just stop breathing? Isn't this your cue?

Listen to your instincts and panic.

Ward listened, and came back to reality a few minutes later groggy and confused. He reoriented himself and went about picking through his mind for a memory to stabilize himself. Dimly he realized: I'm not GOING crazy. I'm there. There was no way to rationalize it out of his head. But when he admitted it, it explained a lot. Added a new dynamic. He could work that into his schedule, discuss the specifics over lunch; it'd be a nice time. Him, himself, and his busted-up mind. The room came back into focus with its dark gray concrete, scuffed and chipped in the spots he'd used to try to exit stage right. (What, you egg? [Ward stabs himself])

On the other side of the screen and the yellow line that Ward could hear scraping back and forth across the concrete, fainter though, because he was physically faint. AND, and, he had drugs in his system, so when he saw Coulson he spent a few seconds trying to decide what the protocol was. Speak? No. The larynx might be in better condition, but Ward knew he didn't have anything worth saying that Coulson couldn't justifiably shoot down. (He went through the scenario in his head: "I'm sorry." "Good." The end. Roll credits.) Simmons had probably debated faking a welcome accident when he was sedated, too, because who wouldn't? If Simmons ever went to the dark side, quite sincerely: God help them all. Simmons wasn't a cutesy sweet child who wanted to find fascinating ocean creatures and sprinkle science-induced happiness over the uninitiated; she was efficient, brutal, protective, and as dark as they came. This wasn't always in her favor, either. Sometimes she transcended the "loyal golden retriever" category and headed over to being more like Ward. And that didn't mean he wouldn't hurt her. The point would be to vanquish a worthy adversary.

'Really, Wardy McOut-Of-My-Gordy? That's what you'd think the point of it would be? She almost whacked you. She didn't make sure you lost your shirt, she cut it off of you. And she still didn't kill you. That is the definition of being at someone else's mercy. (Except Simmons has no mercy left to give you.) You broke your own rules. Now Mr. Loco Parentis is in your personal space, and it's going to get personal. You are too doped up to not be truthful and your hand, it's probably going nice and fast out in the open so that Coulson of the Pure Heart can see it. You're an idiot and you pretty much just scheduled yourself an impromptu therapy session. Go die already.'

"You're using poor grammar," Coulson said.

Ward couldn't focus. He couldn't count. He couldn't remember his habits. He didn't know if Coulson was real or if he was real. Bed, he wanted to go to bed and wake up as someone else. He wanted to wake up in Paris. He wanted to wake up and realize that he'd just walked back to his bunk after watching a rocket head up into the sky. It didn't matter what he wanted now; the reason he'd gotten here at all was because he'd decided that he wanted something else back then. Still, he wanted to do something. Go to bed and cry and not talk ever again, not eat ever again, just die already, fire and blood, Ward! Fire and blood! And what's the point of regret? What'd be the point of regretting doing what everyone else spends their free time wanting you to do, waiting for you to do? There are cameras here for a reason. They're watching you for a reason. They're waiting for you to take your cue.

"Dude." Coulson used his voice to speak, not his hands. The real reason that Coulson did this was to calm Ward down before he hurt himself. The reason that Ward thought Coulson did this was because he was trying to distance himself from Ward in some way, even though he apparently had found a use for Ward, at long last. Was this a teeny bit self-centered? All pain comes from me because I am currently in pain? Yes. It's also heartbreaking. Anyway: "I remember when May recruited you. You looked as self-assured as she did, but she wore it better. And there was that light." Coulson lifted his shoulders and nodded his head slightly, then said, "I didn't know about T.A.H.I.T.I. It hurt, not knowing. And it hurt when I found out. The people on your team are always the people that you're supposed to trust." 

If Coulson didn't add on 'I'm not mad, just disappointed', Ward wouldn't be mad, he'd just be disappointed.

"The only thing I respect about you now is that you haven't begged us to forgive you. I mean, you tried. Then May snapped your voice-box."

Ward wanted to go to bed. He wanted to find the exit. He was an egg that wanted to stab himself, just as angst-y as anything any of the great playwrights would have wanted. The audience members would throw roses at the end of this performance. The drugs were not doing him any good. He could see leaves growing out of his prison's walls, and he could see Coulson in high-definition, the most rigidly defined object in Ward's field of vision. Dark spots appeared in his vision, too, before he remembered to breathe. How could somebody forget to breathe? Easy. Practice.

"Ward," Coulson said, pulling him back out of his warm snuggly bed inside his head. "If you let this win all your work has failed. If you let this win there's nothing left."

'Be a dream,' Ward said.

"I'm not."

'That's what a dream would say.'

"No, it's what a liar would say. You'd know.'

Ward took the time to spell out, 'Burrrrrrn'. 

Coulson stood up so that he could look down into Ward's eyes. Ward felt too tired to even turn his head, so he looked back at Coulson, glassy-eyed. "I should lie to you and say that you're safe. You're okay. It's fine and it's all over. I wish I could. That's just me, though. I can't help myself." ('I'm not mad, just disappointed.') "Every time I come down here, I watch you, and I think, I miss him. All those parts that started growing, all the good things you had in you, and you couldn't remake yourself in time. I miss our team. I miss the Bus. Do you know how many people there are upstairs who want to kill you for what you've done?"

'Gotta be at least eleven.'

"Well, you're not wrong." Coulson was "loyal trusting golden retriever" material. Ward remembered seeing Coulson's collections, all the memorabilia of old spies and their ideas, and he remembered listening to what Coulson said because he'd never heard anything like it before. He also remembered dismissing it. No more regret, though. Just resignation. Sometimes that's all the villains get.

"Do you want to fix part of it?"

'I won't let it happen again.'

"You said that last time. Look at the nice bed you're in, now," Coulson said.

'Then let Simmons come back down. Have May turn off the cameras. Shut your eyes.'

Coulson looked at Ward's hands. He looked Ward in the eyes. Ward could barely focus, and he didn't care anymore. He didn't care. He was done. Let the yellow line be a noose and choke him, and let the walls move in and crush him, but God forbid anybody came close enough to get crushed themselves. He was alone, he was going to be dramatic about it, and he was going to die laughing in his isolation. If that was true, then why was Coulson turning off the barrier and stepping inside Ward's domain? Why was he upsetting the order that Ward had carefully assembled? Referring to Coulson's previous statement, it likely had something to do with the fact that Coulson couldn't help himself. Optimists didn't believe in emotional personal space, and Coulson, the man who obsessively collected anything related to Captain America or anything from the past, well, he would knit Ward a snuggly afghan in the time it took for him to get to Ward's bedside and throw it over him before initiating a long conversation about feelings and mending burned bridges. 

'It doesn't matter. Simmons would thank you. No one would blame you.'

He shut everything else in his mind off. He thought of the fox and the ducks, of Paris and its quiet streets, and he thought of cold mornings with bare tree branches, and he thought of rockets going up, up into the sky. He closed his eyes and refused the world.

"Are you going to let yourself lose, then?"

Not let myself, Ward thought, allow myself. I don't lose often. I think I'd like to try it. Sometimes accepting failure is all the villains get.

'What did all this fighting mean?"

Nothing. And wasn't that hilarious. It wasn't surprising, but it made Ward want to laugh. Instead, he went to sleep.

 

*****

The first few days, Coulson thought that Ward would come out of it, as long as no one went back down to try and coax him out. Then it stretched into two weeks, and Ward started looking starved. He lay in the hospital bed, strapped down, not moving. His hair grew as the camera logged all its time on Daisy's computers. One morning Fitz came into the room to find Jemma at the monitor, staring at Ward, her thumb running up and down the handle of her mug of tea--it was a light blue one he'd gotten for her from one of the gas stations they'd been at while on assignment. Six month anniversary. Fitz was the romantic half of their relationship, and Jemma hid the bodies of her enemies whenever the mood took her, or she made plans to, anyway. Fitz walked into the room the rest of the way and put down some blueberry scones, vegan-friendly, because Jemma thought they tasted nice, not because she was really into veganism. (Veganism? Was that how you put it?)

Fitz pulled up a chair and sat down. He wanted to lean over and kiss her cheek, or her neck, where the corner of her jaw and her ear met. He sipped his tea and waited for her to speak. She came back to him within a few blinks, putting on a smile. "Good morning." Fitz smiled, tried to frame his words, but his mind was too slow. He pushed her cup forward and her smile deepened, not out of real pleasure, just because she was over-compensating. Fitz thought of beautiful things to say to her throughout each day and night. Although they could sit together in comfortable silence and read or fuss with their own personal projects on their laptops as they sat next to each other on the sofa in Jemma's room, or on the bed with some music coming from Fitz's laptop, and although they both understood that recuperation from the kind of injuries Fitz had sustained because of Ward would take time, Fitz knew that Jemma didn't want to take the time to wait. She wanted to take time back. She wanted to hurt things. Jemma didn't process grief; she catalogued it for further experimentation. She could be kind, and that was part of the reason Fitz had fallen in love with her. He had to remind himself of that, though. Fitz could be smart, and was smart, just not smart enough right now. He had to wait. He had no other choice. 

Jemma's eyes went back to the screen and ugly things drifted over her face. She took a drink of tea and reached for a scone. "He doesn't deserve anything. Not a bed. Not help. Coulson should just leave him."

Fitz shook his head and put his hand over Jemma's hand, trying with whatever strength he still had to say, "NO." No one could hear him, though, that was the thing: he wanted to keep everyone safe, and he wanted to make sure that they all moved on from even the worst things, because he was moving on, he was trying to move on, and if he moved on without anybody, ahead of everybody, then he'd have to wait! He'd have to WAIT! And he didn't want to wait any more than he had to, not even if it was for something good to happen, something that he knew was coming. Each day he did his therapy and tried to work on the hard science that everyone else needed to solve their problems, and he tried to connect with Mack, and he tried to connect his mind and make it back into what it was before, and he tried... he tried... Everything drifting around him, so much rage, so many thoughts of revenge that he KNEW had started to grow in his teammates' heads. They were waiting for Coulson to give the order. May could probably have marched down to the cell where they kept Ward, and she could have snapped his neck, or she could have made him die more slowly, but she didn't because she respected Coulson. She'd already broken his trust once; it wouldn't happen again. Jemma, though. She wanted Ward to suffer. That was understandable.

But Fitz wanted her smile to be genuine again. He wanted her to laugh and not pause when she thought of Ward down below them. He wanted her kisses and hugs to be full of warmth instead of feeling like medicine she wanted to make sure Fitz took. He wanted her not to be so preoccupied. Jemma didn't forgive the people who hurt the ones she loved. She had rules. She had methods. And she had her limits. Fitz got an idea. And like a good scientist, he went to see if it would work. He leaned over and kissed Jemma in the spot he'd been eying, then picked up his scone and his cup of tea and hurried out to find Mack, who he'd need for translation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this and thank you to the ones who left kudos and the two loyal weirdos who decided to bookmark this story. I'm only finishing this tale for your sakes, and I hope you enjoy it. To all who feel lonely, let me just say, it's a sucky feeling, but you are loved. Here's an Internet hug *hug* 
> 
> Love you guys, praying for you all


	6. Departures and Intrusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jemma is hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was a good feeling for me. I haven't done this in a while, and when I read it, I thought "hey this isn't too terrible, I should finish this". That's also a good feeling, to revisit things that you left behind and find out they're worth building up and finishing. So read on, and know you are loved no matter what. Internet hug *hug*

Jemma had a plan. Step one: Ward was going to die. Step two: Jemma would get a full night's sleep, conscious that she had restored balance to the universe. Step three: she'd help Fitz heal. Step Four: they'd all feel happy and safe again.

She tried to stay positive for Fitz, tried to give him as many hugs as she could so that he wouldn't feel alone and withdraw, and she tried to stay on good terms with Mack, whom she'd need help from in order to help Fitz regain control of his speech. Jemma had a schedule for both physical and mental therapy planned out for the next few months, and she looked into the future at the milestones that Fitz would eventually have the strength to cross. She imagined finally being able to talk to him without remembering him floating in her arms as she pulled them both up above the ocean's surface, or him in the hospital bed that Ward was in now. Tubes and machines had surrounded Fitz, and he hadn't been able to speak or do anything. She remembered refusing to let anyone else care for Fitz, and she remembered fighting with May when May came down to make sure that Jemma slept. Jemma had the perfect response to May's question: "What good will you do him if you burn out?" May had pointed at Fitz. Jemma had hated her because she was right, and because she was using Fitz to win an argument, and one too many people had used Fitz's trust to his hurt. Jemma was there to protect him. She wanted to make May bleed but then she didn't, because she'd regained control, and that was when the real planning had started. They hadn't found Ward yet, but they would soon. And once they did, she'd sleep in peace, no guilt, just Fitz.

If you weren't an idiot, you could step back and realize that although Jemma had the ability to be kind, she also had an ego, and she had a set way of doing things. Once some outside force acted upon her secure environment, or upon the people whom she included in that environment, Jemma went to work. Not only did Jemma need to be the best in her field, she was the best. Everyone in all her classes had either admired her or hated her, and they all competed with her, but she outdid them all. Who won the best fellowships to the most prestigious universities? Jemma. Who ended up being dismissed from a prestigious university when she embarrassed a professor in front of a group of fellow scholars by proving him wrong? Jemma. Who climbed right back to the top because she was the best and she knew it? Jemma. Then she'd been recruited to the university at S.H.I.E.L.D. All those minds and all those questions she hadn't even thought to ask, all the resources and ideas, the people who were on her level and made her have to try at everything for the first time in her life, well, that was blissful but uncomfortable. She didn't like to be proved wrong. She liked doing it to other people. She was better than everyone out of spite.

All these observations were made by Fitz. "You don't have to be confrontational to get people to listen to you." He'd said it offhandedly, while they worked on a project in the library, gathering research to build on. Jemma had put herself in charge of organizing notes, fingers clicking over the keys of her laptop. Before that, there'd been a contest between study groups, started by one of the older students who was there for another PhD, name of Alex Moskowitz. It was meant to be informal and trivia-based, but the night before, Jemma had gone head-to-head with him until she made a mistake and stammered while giving her answer, and Moskowitz had taken his chance to give the correct answer. No one felt sorry for Jemma because Jemma didn't ever feel sorry for destroying them. She believed that only the strong survived, and in this environment, intellectual prowess constituted strength. She'd outlast them all. Jemma told herself that they understood, and she was only helping them improve their debating skills or their methods of research or some other thing that she found a flaw in. Then there was Fitz, who the teacher had assigned to Jemma as study partner, partly because no one else who knew her or who knew of her wanted to be around her, not even out of fearful curiosity, or with the promise of extra credit. The teacher, Professor O'Malley, had called Jemma into her office. "You need to be able to work with people a little better, Jemma. Your temperament is counterproductive."

Jemma wanted to tell her to look at who was getting the best grades and who had turned in the best work, but she didn't, because O'Malley was the one who gave those grades and praised the work. Jemma never made light of the ones who praised or condemned her...unless they had no power. Then she annihilated them for kicks. Only the strong survived. "I'm quite all right with studying alone. I don't mind the extra work, ma'am. If working alone has any impact on my grades, then I can take on another project to make up for any discrepancy." She knew that O'Malley wouldn't listen, and she waited to hear who her study partner would be. She heard O'Malley say "Fitz" and when she didn't recognize the name, she asked if he was a new student, already figuring that he was, because O'Malley spoke of him without the reservation she used when she talked about how Jemma interacted with fellow-students. (This wasn't the first meeting they'd had about Jemma's mingling skills.) O'Malley told Jemma to meet Fitz in the library the next morning. Jemma followed the instructions, arriving five minutes early and going to her spot, the one closest to where the teachers liked to congregate, and therefore the spot that students avoided. 

Fitz arrived a minute late with a giant backpack thumping against his side, an armful of books, and a tray with two cups of some hot beverage in a tray balanced on top of the books, a white paper bag next to the tray. Fitz lifted his chin at her as a greeting and used his leg to pull a chair out part-way so he could let his backpack drop into it. He put the tray on the table and plopped the white paper bag next to it, and then he put down his books. He held out his hand and said, "Fitz." Jemma gave his hand a shake and said, "I hope you didn't bring coffee. I don't drink coffee."

"Ah no, it's tea. I brewed it myself."

Jemma looked at the cups from the university's café and back to Fitz. 

"I work there." Fitz smiled and moved his bag to the floor. 

"Where's your computer bag?"

"My what? Oh, no. I don't have a laptop."

Jemma stopped arranging her supplies. "I beg your pardon?"

Fitz held up his finger and then took out his phone, set it on the table between them, and tapped a few icons. A holographic screen popped up. He looked at Jemma to see what she thought. When she did nothing, his smile faltered. "Usually people are impressed."

"It is impressive. We're surrounded by impressive things. Shall we study? Thank you for the tea." 

"I got scones, too." He nudged the bag forward. "They're day-old but they're still good." He smiled up at her and then said, "I'm not the worst study partner. I mean, I don't know how good I really am, but... not that bad."

"I'm quite good. We should be fine. Are you...struggling with anything?" Jemma said. She didn't want to be dragged down by subpar study habits. Everyone here might be detail-oriented, and they might all be geniuses, but not one of them came close to her level of preparation. Jemma's outlines had outlines. Her lab reports? Things of beauty, and she could prove how beautiful and accurate all her findings were, all of the facts neatly written on her notecards and none of them out of place. Fitz wasn't a terribly messy person, but he was distracted, an unappealing trait to have in a study partner; studying required focus, or good grades and coveted fellowships didn't happen. He doodled in the margins of his notebook, too; monkeys, mostly. And...he was about to misspell a word. She reached over and took his notebook, spelled it correctly, and gave the notebook back to him. He didn't seem offended, but instead looked at the word and nodded, like he was checking to be sure it was right.

"It's right," Jemma said. "I'm sure it is."

"I believe you. Just memorizing it. I like to learn from my mistakes." Fitz nodded to himself again and finished the sentence he'd been writing down. "You're not popular here, are you?"

Jemma blinked a few times and drew back. Should she leave? What would O'Malley say?

"I mean," Fitz said, his head popping up like he'd realized how that sounded, "I mean, like... you don't have a lot of people saying 'hi'."

"In this school that isn't a flaw."

"It isn't a flaw anywhere. Just. You don't have people lining up to be your study partner, do you?"

Jemma's lips pressed together. She typed a sentence on her boring laptop while Fitz looked up some scientific journal article or other on his impressive holographic phone-computer. Jemma made sure the article came from a current issue. (No mistakes. Only the strong survive.) "Most of the students have trouble adjusting to my study methods. That's fine, they're perfectly entitled to do what they want, but I just have my way. I like order. Not every student likes it. That works for them, but it doesn't work for me. I know I can do better and so I do better. Anything less is wrong." She'd meant to say 'unacceptable', but...why not tell the truth? It wasn't like Fitz would care.

"Well, sure." Fitz rubbed the back of his neck and sat back, but then said, "You don't have to be confrontational to get people to listen to you." He took a bite of scone and pushed his notebook across the table to her. "Anything spelled wrong?"

Jemma made sure she wasn't as punctual when she went to their study sessions, and she double-checked everything just in case. She was standing outside the doors to the library, looking at the clock on her phone, waiting for the time to be exactly five minutes past the time they'd agreed to meet, and then she would walk in. It wasn't a good feeling to be the only person at any table, especially if you were surrounded by people who were supposed to have something in common with you. Being a know-it-all meant good grades and enemies. Being overly punctual meant that she'd have to sit alone. But doing it like this made sharing her study-time with someone else easier. She checked to make sure that she had all her notes in order, that her computer bag was closed, and that the laptop was actually in it; she had forgotten it once at one of her old universities, and the girls sharing her dorm had managed to hack into it and steal her notes, which they then used to cheat on their exams, and Jemma only knew they'd used her notes because the professor who had given the exams called her in and asked her about it... and he had actually accused HER of cheating, even though the other girls from Jemma's dorm had used the notes, barely even altering the terms she'd used. The professor decided to let the matter drop. But then he said, "Don't let this happen again, Miss Simmons, it isn't like you."

So revenge, then.

Imagine a room full of professors with nothing better to do with their time than debate obscure topics and review new variations of what has already been discovered and fully understood. Imagine a full-of-himself, presumptuous professor with a mind as narrow as Jemma's margin for patience at the center of the stage, expounding on his new ideas. Imagine a small, angry girl in the back of the audience get up and come down the aisle, standing in front of the professor, and roasting his raggedy tweed-covered butt. The enjoyment Jemma had taken in doing this? Unimaginable.

Then, expulsion.

And then, Coulson. He made her feel like she could be smart without having to prove it. He made her feel like she was the best without trying. Being on the Bus with Fitz and Coulson made sense. It didn't require any preparation. Now, watching Fitz try to say things and make people understand him, watching him grow more frustrated when he couldn't say things fast enough or with clarity, and watching him break things when he couldn't do what he was good at... Why did she ever think she could love someone and not get hurt? Why didn't she understand that he loved her before then? Why did she agree to get them out of there, and why did she let him get hit with all that water? Jemma had no satisfactory answers to that question, so she abandoned it. She didn't often give up on something she couldn't understand, but this time, she had more important things to think of. How could she get back down there with Ward without being seen? How could she turn off the security feeds without attracting suspicion? She was under suspicion already, so she'd need to let some time pass. She'd find the right moment. She'd give the impression of moving on, and in that time she'd help Fitz heal. Fitz wouldn't feel scared because she would be there to take care of him, she could hug him and help him take his medicine, she'd help him get through his therapy sessions, she'd make sure Mack didn't push him too much. Fitz was already making progress; he liked learning things by himself and for himself instead of learning with other people. He said it made him feel like he'd earned whatever knowledge he found. Like he'd fought for it.

"Jemma?" Coulson's voice came from her left.

She turned and smiled. "Hello, sir."

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Of course."

"I need you to go with May and gather intel for our next mission."

"That's field work, sir. I can't leave Fitz."

Coulson nodded and said, "I understand that, but, this is an area that requires your expertise."

"I'm sure you can find someone else."

"Jemma."

"Sir?"

"Please. Go with May. She'll brief you on the details once you're in the air."

Jemma stood. "Yes sir." She walked a few steps. Stopped. "Sir? What's the mission? Specifically. Where am I going? What am I needed for?"

Coulson didn't answer.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Jemma walked back to him and loomed over him, something she could only do when Coulson was sitting down. Everyone seemed to be taller than she was. She didn't like that. "I need to stay with Fitz. He needs me."

"The real you," Coulson said. "Not the girl you're turning yourself into. Sit down."

Jemma didn't want to give up her defensive stance, so she ignored the request. "I do my best work for you. I make sure every formula comes out right. I make sure Mack doesn't frighten Fitz so that HE can do HIS work, and I make sure that everything, everything is in order. Sir. Do not put me somewhere simply because you think I'm losing control. If I've lost anything," Jemma said, realizing that her voice was rising and getting thinner, maybe even whiny, and she hated it, "I will gain it back. I will restrain myself. I promise you."

"The decision's made." 

"I'm the best person in the lab!" Jemma said. "I'm the best, sir."

"Not for Fitz."

"Sir--?"

"Who do you want to be, Jemma? Is this it? Is that all you have in you?" Coulson lifted his arm and pointed to the area Mack had set up for himself and Fitz. "He's not dead, and he's not blind, and he is not in any sense of the word stupid. He is one of the smartest people I know. Like, he could hold an in-depth conversation with Bruce Banner. You really think that he wouldn't see you changing? You really think that I wouldn't?"

Jemma refused to cry. She...refused... "I understand, sir. I've let my emotions get in the way of my work. I won't let it happen again."

"Yes you will. You're you. So, Agent Simmons. I order you to go with Agent May on this assignment. I'll have Daisy contact you when we need you to return. Understood?"

Jemma nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"Of course you are, sir," Jemma said. "You're you." She went to get her things together, and only when she was alone did she let the tears start to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was okay, guys. Good morning/afternoon/night
> 
> You are loved, never forget that. 
> 
> *hugs to all, prayers for all*

**Author's Note:**

> I sure do hope that was bearable and not too sucky. Continue to read if that is what you want to do


End file.
